


The Superhero's New Clothes

by tortoisegirl



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms, Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Clothing, Gen, Humor, fairy tale fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-11
Updated: 2009-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoisegirl/pseuds/tortoisegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for the Watchmen fairy tales prompt. This one is <a href="http://deoxy.org/emperors.htm">The Emperor's New Clothes</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Superhero's New Clothes

Adrian Veidt stands before his massive closet studying the line of garments hanging there, perfectly straight and orderly, like textile soldiers waiting to be called to duty. He’s looking for something distinctive, new, and he’s forced to dismiss the options crowding the closet for one reason or another- too casual, too recently worn, too similar to something a celebrity was seen in. He ruffles through the meticulously grouped suits and jackets and shirts, cross-referencing them with the rest of the expansive wardrobe he has mentally cataloged. Veidt Industries’ latest prospective business merger is a big one, long-debated and highly publicized, and the subsequent press conference requires nothing less than an outfit fit for a king.

Within three days word has spread through the city: Adrian Veidt needs new clothes.

The epicenter of the buzz is the garment district, the prospect of outfitting the city’s most well-known man sending every designer and tailor and shop owner into a flurry of gossip and productivity. Even more so when Adrian starts visiting shops personally to see what they have to offer.

Two smiling men greet Adrian when he reaches his last stop of the day. It’s a small out-of-the-way place that boasts a mediocre amount of business and not much of a reputation, but Adrian knows better than most that sometimes the brightest diamonds are found in the roughest places. Sometime during their steady stream of flattery and gratitude for even deigning to consider them, the men introduce themselves as the owners and head tailors of the establishment. They are obsequious, practically bowing him into the shop, and Adrian smiles and handles it with the finesse of a seasoned celebrity.

“I assure you, Mr. Veidt, we are the finest tailors in the city,” says one man, a lean, lanky fellow who seems to be trying to make himself look smaller. “We’d be incredibly honored to show you some of our work. Walter! Bring in the samples for Mr. Veidt.”

“Y’see, sir,” contines the other tailor, a larger man, potbellied and making no attempts to look less imposing, “that ain’t just the half of it. Yeah, us two’ll give you the highest quality suit you’ll find ‘round these parts, but we’ve got a little somethin’ extra a man like you’d sure appreciate.”

While he’s speaking a mannequin arrayed in a navy blue suit is slid up to the counter by a short, surly-looking man, whose shock of vibrant ginger hair is the only redeeming feature of otherwise plain, harsh looks. He doesn’t make any eye contact as he approaches the group, staying behind the mannequin’s bulk as if not wanting to be noticed at all. That’s just fine with the tailors, who launch into a narrative about suit designs as the redhead retreats to the corner to wait, hands at his sides and seemingly very interested in the opposite wall. Adrian and the tailors spend a few minutes going over the sample suit, admiring the double stitching, the perfectly flat lay of the lining, the painstaking construction that’ll last for years, oh yes sir, years for sure.

“And this something extra you mentioned?” Adrian asks. It’s delivered so he sounds neither too bored nor too interested.

“Ah, yes sir. You are aware that Dr. Manhattan has produced a few unique fabrics of his own, yes? Well, _ahem_ , he’s not the only one with a talent for miraculous textiles.”

“S’right, Mr. Veidt. We here have taken one of the doc’s special fabrics and altered it into somethin’ completely new. Fabric that responds to heat and touch- now that we’ve seen before. But we, in a top secret process, have created a fabric that is-” he pauses for dramatic effect- “mind sensitive. You heard right, mind sensitive. The most beautiful stuff you’ll ever see- but the catch is, only those who are truly intelligent’ll be able to see it.”

The other tailor cuts in as Adrian gives them a skeptical look. “It truly is a marvel, sir, the perfect melding of science and fashion. A suit made of this material would be, most assuredly, something to be talked of for years.”

“Indeed,” muses Adrian, running his thumb over the cuff of the sample suit. He looks up. “Right,” and he pulls out his checkbook, pen poised and ready. “How much?”

The tailors break into twin grins, and in the ensuing negotiations no one notices the way the redhead in the corner is shooting daggers at everyone in the room.

Adrian gives them their timeline- three weeks to manufacture the fabric and finish the suit. The two tailors sequester themselves behind a ceiling-high rack of bolts of fabric in the back of the workroom. The snip of scissors and hum of a sewing machine are heard arising from the corner, along with some stranger things: clinking glass, puffs of smoke, acrid chemical odors. The kind of things you might expect from a child’s chemistry set.

Whenever the other workers steal peeks between the bolts of cloth the tailors are marking measurements in chalk on an empty cutting table or nimbly pinning a bare dress form. The workers are promptly chased off, but not before a well-timed comment about the nature of the fabric and its particular visual trick. By the end of the third day all the workers are convinced that they are simply not intelligent enough to see it.

Walter is the only person in the shop allowed to assist them. Walter, who scowls every time he slips behind the barrier to deliver thread or tape or coffee, but never asks questions. Never comments as he watches them clip their scissors through the air and snicker, just quietly abides their instructions and observes out of the corner of his eye as they record in a lined ledger the expenses they plan to bill Veidt.

A week after they’ve begun a man in a crisp black suit walks into the shop flanked by a pair of cross-armed, grim-faced bodyguards. The stout tailor practically shoves the counter girl out of the way to greet him. After surveying the place with a disdainful air, and making sure to stand at least two feet away from everything in the room, the man introduces himself as the vice president of the company currently in negotiations with Veidt Industries.

“Mr. Veidt told me about the suit he’s having made here,” he offers. “The one with the new fabric? Sounds fascinating, I must say. He suggested I drop by and have a look.”

The tailor gives the man a thorough once over. “’Course, sir. If Mr. Veidt was kind enough to mention us.”

The man takes a step forward, but the tailor holds up a pudgy hand to stop him. “’Fraid I can’t let you into the workroom. Not even Mr. Veidt has seen the production. Business man like yourself can appreciate the need to keep something like this under wraps, seein’ as we’re the only ones that got it. But I’ll be more’n happy to bring out a sample for you.”

The man waves an acquiescence and the tailor disappears into the back. When he reappears he’s holding a narrow cylinder of thick cardboard, the kind that would normally be wrapped in yards of cloth. His smile is still firmly in place.

The vice president knits his eyebrows together, eyes flitting aimlessly along the bolt.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” the tailor croons. He runs a hand fondly down the cylinder. The vice president looks up at him, suspicious.

“Real shame, huh,” he continues quickly, “that so many people won’t be able to enjoy it. Seeing as you need true intelligence to see it. Whole lotta people out there who just don’t got the brains for it.”

The man opposite him shifts nervously, straightens his tie, no longer meeting the tailor’s eye. The tailor’s smile has brightened considerably.

“Not like you ‘an me, right? And Mr. Veidt. Great men like you sure know how to appreciate the finer things in life, like this gorgeous fabric here.”

Finally deciding his gaze somewhere along the bolt of illusory fabric, the vice president nods and manages a smile. “Yes, very beautiful. I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Veidt that everything is, uh. Looking good.”

He adjusts his tie again and shakes hands with the tailor, then hurries from the shop with his guards bustling to keep up.

In the workroom the two tailors laugh and laugh and wipe the tears from their eyes while Walter glowers at them from behind his machine.

Over the next few days a new set of papers appears on the tailors’ desk. Pamphlets with tropical locales pictured on the front. Sheets of real estate information for places with foreign sounding names like Acapulco and St. Croix. Paperwork from banks about fund transfers and overseas accounts. The tailors snap at Walter whenever they catch him eyeing it all for too long, but Walter times his investigations well and when the cheap lock on the desk mysteriously breaks they can’t be bothered to replace it.

The lanky tailor is in the process of pushing Walter through the door to clean the front of the shop when a woman in a pastel skirt suit and heels breezes through the front door. The tailor immediately abandons Walter, who slinks off to straighten some of the fashion magazines in the waiting area, to greet her. She’s another one of Adrian’s associates, a liaison from the company hoping to merge with Veidt Industries.

“I’ve heard a lot about this fabric you’re using for Adrian’s new suit,” she says, leaning on the counter. “Can’t say I’m not interested in having something made myself if it’s all it lives up to be.”

“Madam, I’d be more than happy to show you a sample,” says the tailor, ever courteous. “Unfortunately I can’t allow you into the production area. Security, and for your own safety, of course. Very complicated procedure, making this fabric. Not even Mr. Veidt has seen the manufacturing process. But I’ll gladly bring something out for your appraisal.”

“If you say so.”

With something like a bow the tailors slips into the back room. The woman smiles at Walter, who is straightening a framed poster of a black-tie couple on the wall and stubbornly ignoring her perky greeting. He’s glad when the tailor comes back and she drops her attentions to him.

The liaison stiffens when she sees the tailor. He’s holding his arms out, palms up, as if there were a length of fabric draped between his hands. He’s beaming like a proud father.

“Here it is. Isn’t it lovely? These patterns here are some of the most exquisite you’ll ever see, to be sure, and it is absolutely unique in the world of fashion. Don’t you agree?” He cuts her off just as she’s opening her mouth to respond. “And of course, the optical properties are nothing short of miraculous. A fabric that only the truly intelligent can see. So many people would long to see beauty such as this and sadly cannot. Our workers here, for example,” he gestures vaguely towards Walter, “are crushed that they can’t see it. It’s nice to be able to share it with someone of your caliber, who can.”

The woman blinks at him for a moment. She looks from his hands to his face, then back to his hands. She nods. “I must say, it is something. Adrian’ll be real pleased to hear that everything’s going well. And, uh, as for having something made with that, I- well, I’ll think about it.”

The tailor motions like he’s gripping the fabric in one hand and shakes her hand with the other. She leaves the store somewhat less confidently than when she came in.

The tailor drops his hands and his smile once she’s gone. “Walter, we’re going to need more coffee. And remember, Veidt is paying for it, so get larges this time, will you?”

He returns to the workroom, and Walter grips the back of a chair so hard he can practically hear the plastic cracking.

During the final week before the deadline the tailors spend most of their time on the phone, conversing in low tones and giving the evil eye to anyone who dares come close. They stop speaking to anyone except each other and eventually hole themselves up behind their fabric-rack barricade, forbidding even Walter from entering.

They don’t come into work the day before the press conference, but promise to be in the following morning to finish things up.

The day of the press conference arrives and Walter finds himself alone in the shop. The employees had been told not to come in, ostensibly so the tailors could put the finishing touches on the highly anticipated suit in peace. Now those two tailors are unconscious, tied to the legs of the desk that holds all the scam’s paperwork and the falsified expense ledger and their plans to leave the country. Walter stands over them holding a pair of plastic hangers neatly labeled with Adrian’s name, the ones they intended to be sent to him while they boarded a plane to Mexico.

The jangle of the front door stops him just as he’s about to put in the call to the police. He curses himself for forgetting to check the lock and walks out to find Adrian Veidt, unabashedly flamboyant in a grey and violet ensemble.

“Ah, hello. I just got word that my suit was just about ready and I thought I’d take a look before it’s delivered later.” Walter remains silent, but Adrian goes on, unworried. “Surely the tailors would be able to show me a little ahead of time?”

“Unavailable at the moment.” Walter slaps the hangers on the garment bar with more force than probably necessary. “Left me in charge for the rest of the day.”

Adrian’s face lights up as he spots the tags on the hangers. “Ah, so this is it.”

Walter watches as Adrian’s eyes rake eagerly over empty air. He frowns. “Hurm. Nothing there, Veidt.”

Adrian pauses, simply staring at the hangers for a moment. When he looks up at Walter it’s with the air of one addressing a naïve child. “It’s Walter, isn’t it? I’m sure it’s not your fault you can’t see it. True intelligence is affected by so many factors we often can’t control, and a deplorable amount of people don’t get the chance to cultivate their potential. Of course everyone does have potential. Several of the charities I run are designed to help disadvantaged youth overcome environmental hindrances so that they too can, well, see the fabric, so to speak.”

Walter’s stare remains even and inexpressive. If Adrian notices the slight twitch in his cheek he gives no indication. “This merger will vastly increase Veidt Industries’ ability to help people improve themselves. And by helping with the suit, you are a part of that. Remember that, Walter. Even if you can’t see this wonderful fabric, your efforts are making it that other people can.” He flashes Walter a winning smile before returning his attentions to the garment. “You’ll be able to bring it to my office tonight, 5:00?”

Walter’s face contorts ever so slightly as he studies Adrian, as if wrestling with a difficult decision. Seemingly making up his mind, he nods tersely.

“Wonderful.”

That evening a mob of reporters and photographers and all the biggest names in business amasses in the main lobby of the Veidt Industries building awaiting Adrian and his announcement.

In a small, comfortably furnished room just off of the lobby a group of costumed heroes is also waiting for Adrian. The Comedian is making himself right at home in an armchair, tapping cigar ash on what is likely a very expensive rug. Dr. Manhattan stands impassively observing atoms while Silk Specter next to him taps her foot and studies a shelf of ancient Greek pottery. Nite Owl leans against the wall, quietly trying to catch Silk Specter’s eye while avoiding Dr. Manhattan’s.

They were all surprised when Ozymandias invited them to meet with him before the press conference. He’d revealed his identity to them some time ago but he’s never attempted to involve them in his civilian business affairs, and they accepted as much out of curiosity as anything else. Rorschach, who surprised them by agreeing to come at all, is the last to arrive, slipping through a side window and joining Nite Owl against the wall.

The hum of the crowd in the lobby filters through the set of wide double doors. It’s been growing louder as the scheduled time of the press conference draws near, but the five masked heroes all turn their attention to the single door on other side of the room at the sound of a turning doorknob. The door opens and Adrian, who disappeared behind it half an hour ago to dress, takes two bold steps into the room.

Nite Owl starts violently, while Rorschach lets out an incensed grunt. The Comedian leans forward with narrowed eyes and shifts his cigar in his mouth. Silk Specter is visibly trying to hold back a fit of giggles. Dr. Manhattan looks unconcerned.

Unfazed by his guests’ reactions, Adrian tugs at a nonexistent sleeve. “Rather nice, don’t you think? I understand the tailors put an enormous amount of work into it, not to mention the amount of money I put into it.” He runs his hands over his abdomen, flattening a jacket that isn’t there. “Very much worth it, I think.”

He takes a few steps forward and looks around at the roomful of bewildered faces. “Don’t tell me you’re all shocked speechless? I mean, I know it looks good, but, please. A fabric that only the truly intelligent can see? I was hoping for your opinions on it.”

In a feat none of them thought possible, the mood of the room grows even more uncomfortable. They fiddle with their hands and clothing and shoot uncertain glances at one another. They stare at Adrian, straining to see what isn’t there while trying to avoid seeing what is.

Adrian watches them all carefully, expectant and hopeful, until he decides the silence has stretched on too long. He waves his hand dismissively.

“Ah well, nevermind then. There’s always time later to talk. The press conference shouldn’t take too long, so you’re welcome to stay if you’d like.”

He moves towards the double doors. They watch his retreating buttocks, uncomfortably quiet, until Adrian’s hand is on the doorknob. Rorschach steps forward.

“Veidt, wait. Tailors scammed you. There’s no fabric. No suit.”

“Rorschach, well. The nature of this fabric-”

“No, Adrian,” Nite Owl cuts in, emboldened now that Rorschach’s broken the ice. “He’s right.”

Adrian’s hand slips off the knob as the easy smile slips off his face. He turns towards the group, earning a few more winces with the full frontal. “You mean to say…”

“What he’s sayin’ Ozy,” the Comedian gruffs out, “is that you’re givin’ us a show every gay strip club in the city would pay a helluva lot of money to get.”

Adrian turns to each of them in turn, and one by one they nod their assent. He looks down at his body as if noticing it for the first time and hoping to wake up from a bad dream; seeing Adrian this distraught is yet another thing everyone in the room never thought they’d witness.

They can’t help but notice that he’s not actually doing anything to cover up.

Normally, even in a plight like this Adrian would know how to maintain composure, and would gather his dignity, lift his head, and march squarely back to the dressing room. Or, given the already bizarre circumstances, he might act more conventionally, forgo poise to redden and rush behind closed doors as quickly as possible.

But what he does do is slowly survey the room and his companions, then smile, then breathe out a laugh that sounds a lot like relief. He’s the calmest person in the room when he turns to Rorschach.

“Thank you, Rorschach, and all of you. I was very disappointed when my two colleagues from the other company came to me raving about a wonderful fabric that they, of course, were intelligent enough to see. I just had to extend the experiment a little further after that. I knew my fellow masks wouldn’t disappoint me.”

“Experiment?” Silk Specter asks, gesturing widely. “You mean this, _this_ is part of some experiment?”

“Common sense is something fundamental to business, and unfortunately something sorely lacking in many people. What better way to test my prospective business partners than to pit their common sense against their pride?” He leans back on his heels, slides his hands along his bare hips as if there were pockets there. “I don’t want to work with anyone who would rather smile and play along with a ridiculous cover story than risk looking foolish to get the truth. The deal was off when two of their highest executives couldn’t even pass a test a child would find obvious. I’ll be announcing that merger isn’t going through. I’m glad you all, at least, are sensible enough to trust your own senses. And they often call us masked adventurers the stupid ones.”

“It was a set up,” Rorschach growls. “Did this on purpose?” He’s clearly angry, to the rest of the room a perfectly understandable reaction to being needlessly exposed to a very naked Adrian Veidt.

“Really, Rorschach. This ‘smartest man in the world’ title didn’t come out of nowhere. Did you really think I’d fall for something like magical invisible fabric?”

The inkblots look furious. Turning away from Rorschach, who’s tensed like he’s about two seconds from punching someone, Adrian takes a moment to look in one of the room’s several mirrors and brush back a loose bit of hair.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a press conference to give.” And with that he throws open the double doors, leaving the heroes agog and aghast behind him, and steps forwards into the sea of waiting flashbulbs.  



End file.
